Have you seen a brokenhearted man? A genuinely, brokenhearted, Kenyan man? A man, who loved deeply, sacrificed greatly and was completely blindsided by their woman?
It’s a sad sight, to see a man who’s heart-broken. They don’t need to tell you their hearts have been crushed into pieces, because you’ll know. You’ll know because they all appear the same. You’ll know because their eyes are lifeless, their smiles are feigned and their movement strained.
You’ll know because when you’re at Serena Hotel’s pool deck area on a sunny afternoon, sipping some cold drink, pretending to read the day’s newspaper and throwing occasional glances at Raila and friend on your far left, a tall man with a white pocket square will stride past you.
The man will sit on the table on your right and he’ll soon confirm your suspicions.
I sat, with the day’s paper open, waiting for a friend who was running late. Subconsciously, I circled my index finger on the rim of the glass and occasionally put my head up to admire the teenage girl who swam like a Goldfish in the pool. Her diving skills were flawless, inspiring even.
Then, in another five minutes, a conversation began. Baritone voices exchanged. A story was being told.
Pocket-square-guy said: “I can’t believe it.”
“Are you sure? Seriously?” asked his light-skinned friend.
“Yeah, man,” he said.
“But how is that possible? How did that happen? When did it even happen?”
From excellent eavesdropping skills taught during four years of J-School, I managed to silently (and mannerlessly) become part of the tale between the boys.
The story goes that, pocket-square-guy had a lady. They’d dated for three years (I know this because it was repeated severally in anger). Over the last year, she began the usual female criticisms: he worked too hard, said too little and texted even less.